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"I know," said Lemitov.
"You know?"
"I okayed it."
Volodya's jaw dropped. "What the fuck?"
"Sit down."
"What is going on?"
"Sit down and shut up, and I'll tell you."
Volodya eased himself painfully into a chair.
Lemitov said: "We have to have a nuclear bomb, and fast. At the moment, Stalin is playing it tough with the Americans, because we're fairly sure they don't have a big enough arsenal of nuclear weapons to wipe us out. But they're building a stockpile, and at some point they will use them--unless we are in a position to retaliate."
This made no sense. "My wife can't design the bomb while the secret police are punching her in the face. This is insane."
"Shut the fuck up. Our problem is that there are several possible designs. The Americans took five years to figure out which would work. We don't have that much time. We have to steal their research."
"We'll still need Russian physicists to copy the design--and for that they have to be in their laboratories, not locked in the basement of the Lubyanka."
"You know a man called Wilhelm Frunze."
"I was at school with him. The Berlin Boys' Academy."
"He gave us valuable information about British nuclear research. Then he moved to the States, where he worked on the nuclear bomb project. The Washington staff of the NKVD contacted him, scared him by their incompetence, and fucked up the relationship. We need to win him back."
"What has all this got to do with me?"
"He trusts you."
"I don't know that. I haven't seen him for twelve years."
"We want you to go to America and talk to him."
"But why did you arrest Zoya?"
"To make sure you come back."
ii
Volodya told himself he knew how to do this. In Berlin, before the war, he had shaken off Gestapo tails, met with potential spies, recruited them, and made them into reliable sources of secret intelligence. It was never easy--especially the part where he had to talk someone into turning traitor--but he was an expert.
However, this was America.
The Western countries he had visited, Germany and Spain in the thirties and forties, were nothing like this.
He was overwhelmed. All his life he had been told that Hollywood movies gave an exaggerated impression of prosperity, and that in reality most Americans lived in poverty. But it was clear to Volodya, from the day he arrived in the USA, that the movies hardly exaggerated at all. And poor people were hard to find.
New York was jammed with cars, many driven by people who clearly were not important government officials: youngsters, men in work clothes, even women out shopping. And everybody was so well dressed! All the men appeared to be wearing their best suits. The women's calves were clad in sheer stockings. Everyone seemed to have new shoes.
He had to keep reminding himself of the bad side of America. There was poverty, somewhere. Negroes were persecuted, and in the South they could not vote. There was a lot of crime--Americans themselves said that it was rampant--although, strangely, Volodya did not actually see any evidence of it, and he felt quite safe walking the streets.
He spent a few days exploring New York. He worked on his English, which was not good, but it hardly mattered: the city was full of people who spoke broken English with heavy accents. He got to know the faces of some of the FBI agents assigned to tail him, and identified several convenient locations where he would be able to lose them.
One sunny morning he left the Soviet consulate in New York, hatless and wearing only gray slacks and a blue shirt, as if he were going to run a few errands. A young man in a dark suit and tie followed him.
